


don't give mercy for those dreams

by frith_in_thorns



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Blood, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Canon, SI-5, Tumblr Prompt, injury clean-up, kepler's disturbing power-plays, the fic is gen but the intent is not, violence is intimate right, weird intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 07:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13453785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frith_in_thorns/pseuds/frith_in_thorns
Summary: "Don't leave your knife behind, Mr Jacobi," is all Kepler says.





	don't give mercy for those dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a tumblr prompt which was amazingly disturbing. In a good way.

Blood speckles scatter along Jacobi's jaw. His fingers have smeared some into the likeness of brush-strokes.

Jacobi lifts his hand again, futilely blends more blood against his skin instead of clearing it away. He drags his hand along his neck, but fresh blood blooms there as soon as he wipes away the old.

The cut is a shallow one.

"Don't leave your knife behind, Mr Jacobi," is all Kepler says.

Jacobi meets his eyes for a long few seconds, then stoops to pull the knife from the throat of the man at his feet. He wipes the blade on the dead man's sleeve. All his movements are small, precise.

Maxwell finishes disassembling the storage bank and takes a few steps towards them. "Do you have what we came for, Doctor?" Kepler asks.

"Yes," she says. "Jacobi — are you alright?"

"He's fine," Kepler says.

"He's bleeding."

Kepler has barely taken his eyes from Jacobi. "He's _fine_. Aren't you, Mr Jacobi?"

Jacobi pulls in his lip, grimaces as he tastes the blood. "Of course. Sir."

"Then. Let's go."

Maxwell moves towards Jacobi, cutting Kepler out. She has a distrustful way of looking at Kepler sometimes. Kepler tries to cultivate it. Balance; good teams are all about balance. He wants Maxwell to question, and as a counterpoint he wants Jacobi to — 

He drives them to the assigned safe-house, alone in the front of the car. He takes surreptitious glances at his mirror. Jacobi looks out of the window, head turned and collar pulled high to hide the cut on his neck. Maxwell sits beside him, determinedly not watching either of them.

He parks and gets out, and Maxwell gets out, and Jacobi puts his feet down on the gravel and staggers, off-balance. Kepler gets to him first but Jacobi pulls himself up tightly, pushing away help.

Kepler lets him walk in by himself. But once inside he plants himself firmly in Jacobi's way. "Jacket off," he says.

Jacobi rolls his eyes, but shucks the jacket. Blood from the wound on his neck has soaked down through his shirt. When he turns his head the cut pulls open again, trickling red from one corner. 

"You're coming with me," Kepler says, and for once he doesn't have a fight on his hands.

Jacobi sits on the edge of the bath and unbuttons his shirt without being told. "What do you think?" he asks. "Am I going to have a scar?"

"You shouldn't have had anything," Kepler says. "You let him get too close. Let him get your knife."

Jacobi's mouth twists. "I had a lot of things to keep track of."

Kepler opens the medical kit. It's well stocked. It even has flannel cloths for removing more blood than sterile wipes can cope with. He soaks one under the tap and starts working it against Jacobi's shoulder. "That's no excuse."

"Fine, I'm ever so very sorry," Jacobi says. "Just to be clear, though, am I apologising for letting him take my knife off me, or for getting sliced?"

"Both," Kepler says, curtly. He rinses the cloth, and begins working on the crusted blood on Jacobi's neck.

It's a sharp, clean cut. No fault with the blade. 

If he had turned around just a little slower he would have missed it; the arc of Jacobi's arm intercepting his attacker's. The gleam of metal as the knife flipped around. Graceful, deliberate death.

He cleans the long-dried blood from Jacobi's face. He's intent, careful. 

Jacobi has been watching him all this time.

Kepler finally, deliberately, looks up. Jacobi, previously statue-still, inhales, as Kepler holds him with his eyes.

It can't be seen now, that lurking will to violence, volatile and gunpowder-dark. It's a secret beneath the surface, one Kepler could drag out if he pleased. Knowing that is enough to satisfy him, for now.

"You're done," he says, and keeps eye contact for seconds longer, not letting Jacobi go until it's on his terms. He straightens up.

"Sir," Jacobi says. He doesn't move while Kepler leaves.


End file.
